Part 12 (1/2)

”I was sitting with some friends higher up in the stand, when I saw you here, and thought I'd like to make one of the victorious party.”

Allis knew who the friends were; the clinging touch of stephanotis had come with him. The discrepancy in Crane's sentiments jarred on Allis.

That other day this woman had been his trainer's sister, recognized for politic purposes; to-day he had been sitting with ”friends.”

Topping the rail in the distance, just where the course kinked a little to the left, Allis could see the blur of many colored silks in the sunlight. Then it seemed to flatten down almost level with the rail, as the horses broadened out to the earth in racing spread and the riders clung low to the galloping colts, for they had started.

”There they come,” said Crane. ”What's in the lead, Porter?” Porter did not answer. A man could have counted thirty before he said, ”The Dutchman's out in front--a length, and they're coming down the hill like mad.”

Allis felt her heart sink. Was it to be the same old story--was there always to be something in front of Lucretia?

”Where is your mare?” Crane asked.

His own gla.s.s lay idly in his lap. Though he spoke of the race, it was curious that his eyes were watching the play of Allis's features, as hope and Despair fought their old human-torturing fight over again in her heart.

”Now she's coming!” Porter's voice made Crane jump; he had almost forgotten the race. To the close-calculating mind it had been settled days before. The Dutchman would not win, and Lucretia was the best of the others--why worry?

They were standing now--everybody was.

”Now, my beauty, they'll have to gallop,” Porter was saying. They were close up, and Crane could see that Lucretia had got to the bay colt's head, and he was dying away. He smiled cynically as he watched Westley go to the whip on The Dutchman, with Lucretia half a length in the lead.

Most certainly Langdon was an excellent trainer; The Dutchman was just good enough to last into second place, and Lucretia had won handily.

What a win Crane had had!

A little smothered gasp distracted his momentary thought of success, and, turning quickly, he saw tears in a pair of gray eyes that were set in a smiling face.

”Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing,” came back to Crane out of the poem Allis had recited.

”I congratulate you, Miss Porter,” he said, raising his hat. Then he turned, and held out his hand to her father, saying: ”I'm glad you've won, Porter--I thought you would. The Dutchman quit when he was pinched.”

”It wasn't the colt's fault--he was short,” said Porter. ”I shouldn't like to have horses in that man's stable--he's too good a trainer for me.”

There was a marked emphasis on Porter's words; he was trying to give Crane a friendly hint.

”You mean it's a case of strawberries?” questioned Crane.

”Well I know it takes a lot of candles to find a lost quarter,” remarked Porter, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added, ”I must go down to thank Dixon; I guess this is his annual day for smiling.”

”I'm coming, too, father,” said Allis; ”I want to thank Lucretia, and give her a kiss, brave little sweetheart.”

After Allis and her father had left Crane, he sat for a minute or two waiting for the crowd of people that blocked the pa.s.sageway after each race to filter down on the lawn. The way seemed clearer presently, and Crane fell in behind a knot of loud-talking men. The two of large proportions who had sat behind Allis, were like huge gate posts jammed there in the narrow way. As he moved along slowly he presently had knowledge of a presence at his side--a familiar presence. Raising his eyes from a contemplation of the heels in front of him, he saw Belle Langdon. She nodded with patronizing freedom.

”I lost you,” she said.

”I was sitting with some friends here,” he explained.

”Yes, I saw her,” she commented pointedly.

At that instant one of the stout men in front said, with a bear's snarl, ”Well that's the worst ever; I've seen some jobs in my time, but this puts it over anything yet.”

”Didn't you back the little mare?” a thin voice squealed. It was the 'Pout.

”Back nothin'! The last time out she couldn't untrack herself; an' today she comes, without any pull in the weight, and wins in a walk from The Dutchman; and didn't he beat her just as easy the other day?”